


seeing all the sights

by somehowunbroken



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 02:51:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8950987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somehowunbroken/pseuds/somehowunbroken
Summary: They always had an expiration date.

In which Dylan and Mitch aren't dating. And then they're also not talking. And then Dylan gets sent back to Erie, and, well.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maleyka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maleyka/gifts).



> hi, maleyka! this is the longfic i wrote you for hockey hols. there are two treat fics for you as well, because i couldn't resist writing some of my favorite rarepairs! i hope you enjoy your fics, and happy holidays :)
> 
> thanks to S., D., and A. for beta reading/cheerleading. title is from ["the ballad of me and my friends" by frank turner](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xpqM-W8SV2I). relevant part:
> 
> _but if you're all about the destination_   
>  _then take a fucking flight_   
>  _we're going nowhere slowly_   
>  _but we're seeing all the sights_

They always had an expiration date.

It sucks, but it's been the unspoken truth about their relationship since they started messing around. Dylan's always known that his—thing with Mitch, whatever it was, wouldn't make it into the NHL with them. He would rather have been wrong about it, but he knows that line about becoming a man and putting childish things behind you, so he hugs Mitch hard at the draft and then lets him go.

Of course, they're both back in the O pretty quickly after that, and Dylan's plan to make a clean break dies a quiet death the first time they play each other. Mitch is, as ever, nothing but himself, and Dylan has no desire to resist; when he walks out of the locker room in mid-November and sees Mitch leaning against the wall, screwing around with his phone, he doesn't hesitate to walk over and bump their shoulders together.

"Stop taking penalties," he says, for lack of a better opening line.

Mitch snorts and looks up at him with a grin. "Says the guy who took two tonight."

"And you didn't score on either power play," Dylan returns. "Unlike the better team on the ice."

"Wow, we scored shorthanded?" Mitch says, sliding his phone into his pocket. "I missed that."

It's one of Dylan's favorite things about Mitch: he's able to leave the game on the ice. Even though Erie won 3-1, in no small part due to Mitch taking a penalty and Dylan's line scoring on the ensuing power play, Mitch is still smiling at him. Dylan's lucky and he knows it, and he's glad that Mitch generally thinks Dylan's post-loss grumpiness is hilarious instead of irritating.

"Let's get nachos," he says instead of trying to say any of that. It doesn't matter, not in the long run. They have another year, but that's it. That's all.

Dylan can't let himself get used to having Mitch.

-0-

It seems kind of fitting, is all Dylan can think. He's skating in quiet circles, feeling lost in his gear, swimming in his pads and his sweater and his sadness. He's crying and he knows it, hot tears dripping down the end of his too-cold nose, but he's not sure what else he's supposed to do here.

"Stromer," Brinksy says. He doesn't look much better off than Dylan feels, but he's holding himself together. "Handshakes, c'mon. Then we can shower and go eat a pint of Ben and Jerry's." He pauses. "Each."

"Brinks," Dylan croaks. "I'm so—"

"If you fucking apologise, I'm skating over both your feet," Brinksy cuts in. "Handshakes. Showers. Ice cream."

Dylan cracks what he's sure is an awful smile before skating over to head up the handshake line.

It's not bad, aside from the obvious; the London guys are pretty gracious about winning the series, and they say all the right things about Erie's amazing season as Dylan makes his way down the line. He mumbles back congratulations on autopilot, trying and failing to think of what he's going to say when he gets to the end of the line.

Mitch's face crumples just a little when he catches sight of Dylan. He doesn't even bother trying to go for a handshake; instead, he pulls Dylan down into a hug, one hand coming up to pat at the top of Dylan's head.

"Hey, hey," Mitch says. "You were great. You were amazing."

"No," Dylan manages. "I wasn't."

"You're incredible," Mitch says fiercely, rocking him back and forth a little. "I'm gonna keep saying it until you believe me."

"Line's too long for that," Dylan says, forcing himself to let go and stand up. He doesn't want to face what's coming next, but he doesn't want to keep everyone else out here, either. The Knights will want to celebrate, and Dylan needs to get his own shit together enough to talk to his team.

"I'll keep saying it," Mitch repeats as Dylan skates away. "Try and stop me."

Dylan sort of expects Mitch to forget, what with how he's going to the OHL finals and then to the Memorial Cup. He doesn't, though; there's something from Mitch every day, a note about how Dylan's skating has improved, a link to an article about Dylan's performance in a certain game, a photo of Dylan sniping a goal with the heart-eyes emoji after it. Dylan doesn't need the reassurance, not really; he's never in a great mood after a loss, and especially not one of that caliber, but he wouldn't have made it this far in his hockey career if he didn't trust in his own abilities. Sometimes it takes him a day, but he knows how good he is.

He doesn't ask Mitch to stop, though. Part of him is curious to see how long Mitch will keep it up; the other part of just thinks it's nice to hear compliments from someone who had made it his life's mission to chirp Dylan into seeing red for the first six years they'd known each other.

Mitch and his Knights sweep the round robin, and the texts keep coming. There's a tie-breaker game to figure out who the Knights will face, and the texts keep coming. Dylan's phone chimes the morning of the championship game, and when he opens his texts there's a sleepy selfie of Mitch giving him a thumbs-up. _we're gonna wreck it tonight anyway but it would be easier if you were my centre,_ is the attached message.

Dylan stares at the words for a long, long time. It sounds like Mitch is saying more than he's saying, but he can't be.

He can't be. Right?

Dylan sighs, frustrated, and types out _thanks_ , then tosses his phone to his bed. He's just seeing things that he wants to see because he knows that this summer is all he and Mitch have, and that's only if Mitch wants to keep… doing whatever they're doing. The hooking up.

Not the feelings. They don't do feelings; feelings have never been a part of their arrangement, which is why Dylan's sure that he's just projecting now. He'd like to return the feelings to wherever they came from, but apparently nobody's accepting returns on _so I want to actually date my sometimes-fuckbuddy and I'm going to be crushed when everything ends, but he doesn't feel the same way, so I'm just hanging on while I can_.

His phone buzzes, pulling him out of his thoughts. It's from Mitch, another selfie, this time of him making a kissy face at the camera. _kiss for luck???_

"Are you for real," Dylan says out loud, looking down at his phone. He can't help the fond smile on his face, though, so he sends back two kissy face emojis and judges himself a little more.

-0-

They keep hooking up over the summer.

"It's too hot for this," Dylan mumbles when Mitch curls up against him, sweaty skin sticking together everywhere. His arm apparently doesn't think so, because Dylan blinks and it's wrapped around Mitch's shoulders, holding him close. "I don't want to cuddle," he says anyway, even as he brushes his thumb back and forth against Mitch's shoulder.

"Shhh," Mitch says, turning his head to press a kiss against Dylan's collarbone. "I like cuddling. You're good at it."

"Hot," Dylan repeats. "You're gonna pull the sheet up, too, and then it's gonna be even worse."

Mitch grins against Dylan's shoulder and reaches down without looking. He definitely wouldn't be able to get the sheet over them if Dylan didn't cooperate, but Dylan's long past actually fighting Mitch over things he wants. The sheet settles over them, and Mitch sighs against Dylan's shoulder. "Better."

"You're a menace," Dylan says, closing his eyes.

"You love me anyway," Mitch mumbles, already halfway asleep.

Dylan freezes a little, because that's not—it's not in the cards for them, and it's not true, anyway. He makes himself relax through sheer force of will. "Whatever," he mutters, but Mitch just hums back at him. It's always impossible to keep him awake after sex, but it's never a long nap, which means Dylan has about twenty minutes to get a grip before he has to have his game face on.

It's maybe not the best that he's using hockey methods of coping for his thing with Mitch, Dylan reflects, but it's gotten him this far. He'll stick with it for the summer, and then it won't matter anymore.

Mitch is going to absolutely light the Leafs up this year, is the thing. In his quieter moments, he's unsure of his place at his age and his size, but Dylan knows him. He doesn't have to stretch his imagination to see Mitch on Bozak's wing, or Kadri's, or, god, even Matthews'. He'll be a points machine no matter where he is, and Dylan will be as good as he can be, hopefully in Glendale. Hopefully not back in Erie.

It's not that he doesn't love Erie; he appreciates where he's come from, everything that he's learned and taught others there. It's just that he knows his own game, and he knows that going back to Erie isn't going to help him progress. He can only hope that the Coyotes think the same thing.

"Hmmm," Mitch murmurs, nuzzling against Dylan's collarbone. "Breathe, Dyls."

"Go back to sleep," Dylan replies, brushing his mouth against Mitch's forehead. "It's summer. Nowhere to be."

Mitch hums again, then shakes his head. "Thought you didn't want to cuddle."

Dylan sighs, making sure his chest rises and falls as much as he can make it. "I guess you talked me into it this time."

"I'm good like that," Mitch says. He definitely sounds too smug to still be asleep, but Dylan keeps his arm tucked around Mitch's shoulders. He'll let go when he has to. "What are you thinking about?"

"How I'm gonna be the one to score the game winner when we play you in December," Dylan says. "Ten seconds left in the game, we're tied up, you turn the puck over in the neutral zone and then trip into your lineys and also your defense, so I'm free to just skate it in and shoot."

"It's good to have dreams," Mitch says agreeably, patting Dylan's stomach. "I just had a good one where you got traded to Ottawa."

"How is that good?" Dylan asks, offended.

"Well, we'd be closer," Mitch says, like it's something they're talking about now, like them being closer would make things different. "Also, then every time I scored against you I'd also get to score against Phaneuf, which is awesome."

"You're full of shit," Dylan says solemnly. "And think of it this way: if neither of us is on the Sens, then we can _both_ score against Phaneuf."

Mitch hums a little. "Acceptable," he finally decides. "You should just get traded to Toronto, though. That would be the best." He's tracing his fingers absently against Dylan's stomach, so he has to notice when Dylan tenses again, but he doesn't say anything else.

"Or you could come down to Arizona," Dylan manages. It's not smooth, not an automatic response, but Mitch smiles against his shoulder anyway.

"Or that," Mitch says. "Maybe we just run away to Florida together. We were drafted there. That counts for something, right?"

Dylan closes his eyes, mostly so he doesn't have to figure out what to stare at. "It was kind of hot there," he says. "The ice is probably terrible."

Mitch pokes him in the side. "You play in _Arizona_ ," he says. "Also, if we're in Florida, we can put a snake on Eichs every time the Sabres come to play."

It surprises a laugh out of Dylan. "We could," he agrees. "Life goals, I guess."

"Sounds good," Mitch says. His words are quieter, and he hasn't moved from Dylan's side. "I'm gonna go to sleep, I think."

"You're the worst," Dylan says with a sigh, but he turns his head to brush a kiss against Mitch's temple as they both drift off.

-0-

"I don't know," Connor says slowly, stickhandling a ball in Dylan's driveway. "I mean, have you guys talked about it?"

Dylan scoffs. "What, you leave Erie and go make the big times, and suddenly you're all 'talk to him, Dylan?'"

Connor rolls his eyes, and this is why he's Dylan's best friend: he doesn't take any of Dylan's shit. "Maybe I did," he says loftily, scooping the ball onto his stick and hitting it into the air. It's a little disgusting and a little gorgeous, how Connor can concentrate well enough to keep the ball going while still holding a conversation with Dylan. "It's not like it's rocket science or whatever, Dyls. Relationships take—"

"And I'm gonna stop you right there," Dylan cuts in. "What about everything I just said made you think we were ever in a _relationship_?"

Connor lets the ball hit the ground, and he gives Dylan his most dead-eyed stare. "Literally all of it," he says after a moment. "Like, Dylan, think about if it was… I don't know, Brinksy telling you all of this stuff about him and some guy."

"Brinksy tells me shit about him and guys all the time," Dylan grumbles. "I would really rather know fewer details about Brinksy's sexual escapades, thanks."

"Did you just seriously use the word _escapades_?" Connor asks, laughing. "Oh my god, no wonder you have no idea you're half in love with Marns."

Now it's Dylan's turn for the dead-eyed stare. "Shut up, Davo. Nobody asked you."

"You did," Connor reminds him.

"Shut _up_ ," Dylan repeats. "And, look, that's not the point of any of this. My feelings, that's not—"

"Then what are you asking me?" Connor interrupts and Dylan goes quiet.

"I don't know," he finally says. "I just… I don't know what I'm doing here. At all."

"I don't either," Connor says, and his tone is light but his smile isn't mocking. "Also, I don't think I can tell you. Probably you should talk to Marns about all of this, see what he says, and then maybe I can help if you still don't know."

"Ugh," Dylan says with feeling. "If I wanted someone to tell me to use my words, I would've asked my mom."

"There's still time to do that," Connor says, playing with the ball. "Or we could call Ryan. I bet he'd have some great brotherly advice for you."

"He would never stop making fun of me, not ever," Dylan says. "And before you suggest we tell him anyway, remember that I never told Cam about the thing with the flowers and the food dye and you slicing your finger open."

Connor glares a little. "We're not talking about that."

"Sure," Dylan says easily. "Keep Ryan out of my personal shit."

"Okay, actual advice," Connor says, picking the ball up and starting the ping-pong thing over again. "Figure out something to call it that's not _personal shit_. Start small, work from there."

"You're the worst," Dylan says, reaching out to swipe at the ball. It goes flying, and Connor gives him an unimpressed look. "Let's talk about your love life! That has to be interesting. Meet anybody up in the Great White North?"

Connor's face doesn't change at all, which is the best indication he could give that Dylan has hit pay dirt. "All I do is play hockey. When would I have the time to meet anyone?"

"While you're playing hockey," Dylan says. "Worked for me."

"Not everyone is you," Connor says. He's doing his best 'I'm a hockey robot, stop asking me about feelings, I don't have those' impression, but he's not as good at it as Crosby is. Dylan can see the fault lines. "Anyway, if I was following your model, I'd have to date one of the Flames, and that's so not happening."

Dylan narrows his eyes. "Someone on your team," he decides. "Do you want me to guess, or do you want to confess?"

"Hey!" someone calls, and Connor lets out an audible sigh of relief as they turn to see Matt coming out of the house. "Are we playing? Should I get someone else, and we can do two-on-two? I call Davo!"

"We're not," Dylan starts, but Connor whacks his shins with his stick. "Fucking ow!"

"Sure, Matty," Connor calls, flashing him a smile. "I call dibs on you, anyway. I only want to play with the best Strome, am I right?"

"Traitor," Dylan mutters. He raises his voice so Matt can hear him. "I'll call Mikey, see if we can get three-on-three. Also, you're the worst. You're supposed to want to play with me."

Matt rolls his eyes. "Nah, I'll pass," he says, grinning as Dylan swipes at him on his way inside to get his phone. "Davo and I are gonna kick your ass, bro."

"Worst," Dylan yells as he lets the door fall shut behind him.

He'd tossed his phone on his bed when Connor arrived earlier; they don't have a 'no phones' rule or anything, but Dylan doesn't get to see Connor nearly as much as he'd gotten used to, so he'd left it upstairs. When he picks it up and checks the screen, he sees that he's missed a flood of messages from Mitch.

_hey_

_you busy??_

_dyls i'm bored n i haven't seen ur face in like six whole days skype w me_

_oh wait shit nvm today is Davo Day_

_i know where i rank hahaha_

_if he ditches you for his cool new nhl friends hit me up i'm doing nothing today_

They're from almost an hour ago, but Dylan doesn't hesitate to call him as soon as he reads the messages. "Hey," he says. He hopes Mitch can't tell how warm his voice sounds, how fond. "Yes, it's Davo Day, and no, he hasn't ditched me for his NHL friends. It's much worse than that."

Mitch laughs. "What's worse than that?"

"He picked Matty for two-on-two over me," Dylan says as solemnly as he can manage while grinning. "I need backup, Marns. Come help me destroy them."

"The audacity," Mitch says. Dylan can hear how much he's smiling. "I'll come by. Stall until I get there, and then we'll make them regret not fighting each other over you."

"Sounds like a plan," Dylan says, grinning. "I'll see if I can strong-arm some McLeods into playing goalie. That should take a while."

"Good luck," Mitch says, laughing as he hangs up.

Dylan doesn't think about how his first instinct was that he wanted Mitch _here_ , and his second was to invite him to play ball hockey. He doesn't. He's not thinking about it at all, and if he's smiling while he texts Mikey, well, he doesn't need to think about why.

-0-

Dylan doesn't distance himself from Mitch towards the end of the summer; they both get busy is all, and maybe Dylan doesn't reach out, but Mitch doesn't, either. Dylan firmly tells his hurt feelings that this is what they always knew was coming and does his best to get as fit as he can before training camp.

It's brutal; it feels less brutal than it did last year, which is a good sign, but he still hurts in places he'd forgotten he had, and he's exhausted more than he isn't. He makes friends with some of the other young guys on the team; Chychrun and Crouse are in the same boat he's in, and they're fun to hang around with, so Dylan's camp becomes a cycle of practice, eat, practice, eat, and sleep, with some hanging out for Snapchat purposes stuck in random places. It's exhilarating.

Dylan knows objectively that he's at least sort of competing for a roster spot with Dvorak, and he tells himself that's why he doesn't really hang out with the guy. He knows he's lying to himself at least a little, but he gets away with it for the first three days of camp, and then Dvorak spoils the whole thing by skating over and leaning against the boards where Dylan's waiting for his next drill. "So," Dvorak says, looking Dylan right in the eye. "Are you avoiding me because of Marns, or is this you holding a grudge about the playoffs?"

"Fuck off, I'm over that," Dylan says easily. He is, too. Mostly.

Dvorak just raises an eyebrow. "The loss, or Marns?"

"There was nothing to _get over_ ," Dylan says, looking around to make sure nobody's skating towards them. He likes these guys, but he doesn't know how far he can trust most of them, and he doesn't like everyone knowing his personal business anyway. "It wasn't—we weren't like that. It wasn't ever like that."

The second eyebrow joins the first. "You're fucking with me, right?" Dvorak asks. "Like, you're… this is some kind of really shitty practical joke."

"Did he tell you we were…" Dylan trails off and waves his hand vaguely. "Because if he did, man, congrats, that's more than he ever told me. It was just… a thing."

"A thing," Dvorak echoes. "He didn't ever… I just, I mean. I saw the two of you together, okay? And it's not like he didn't tell me who he was hooking up with."

"That's what it was," Dylan says. Shrugging only hurts him a little, and maybe it's less him missing Mitch and more the wicked slapshot he'd taken earlier. It's possible. "Nothing more."

"Then why…" Dvorak mutters, more to himself than to Dylan.

"What?" Dylan presses.

Dvorak blinks and frowns at him. "Nah, man, nevermind. I guess I was just seeing shit."

Dylan shrugs again and looks back out over the ice. "So, like, have you talked to him?" he asks, going for casual. "I've been too beat to do anything."

It's quiet for long enough that Dylan wonders if Dvorak skated off and he somehow didn't notice, but when he turns his head, Dvorak is just kind of looking at him. Dylan can't interpret the expression on his face at all, and he's suddenly reminded that regardless of whatever he and Mitch had had together, Dvorak was his centre, his co-captain. Dvorak knows parts of Mitch that Dylan doesn't, and this time he can't help the sharp flare of old hurt before he stamps it down.

"Yeah," Dvorak finally says. "He's having a good camp. You should text him."

"Yeah, sure," Dylan says vaguely before nodding across the ice. "Passing drills, I think." He skates away before Dvorak can say anything else.

It's not that he doesn't want to talk to Mitch. He does, actually, kind of a lot; he misses just texting all the time, talking and snapping each other photos of dogs and ridiculous selfie one-upping contests. The sex, sure, he misses that too, but it's more _Mitch_ that he misses, and part of him doesn't want to reach out until he's got more of a handle on all the feelings he hasn't managed to get rid of yet.

He finally bites his lip and texts when he gets the news that he's getting a shot to stay up. Mitch replies almost instantly, and Dylan knows that he hasn't just been waiting around hoping a text would come through, but he feels a little bad anyway. _congrats!!!! dvo said you were having a rlly good camp. knew you'd do it!!_

Dylan smiles. _sorry i've been mia. how's leafs camp_

The three little typing bubbles show up, go away, and come back again. Dylan tries not to get nervous, but it's hard when a few minutes pass with no reply.

Finally, his phone dings. _i know things were weird at the end of the summer n i didn't know why? so i was letting you have ur space i guess. i figured if it was something i did n you'd let me know. if i fucked up tell me pls?_

Dylan's just sucking in a sharp breath when Mitch texts again. _i missed you._

He hits call instantly, and Mitch picks up on the first ring. "Dyls?"

It's soft, almost tentative, and Dylan wants to punch himself in the thigh for—everything, right now, ignoring Mitch and thinking his own feelings were more important and having feelings in the first place. His feelings—or, okay, his inability to deal with his feelings—should never have come between the friendship he and Mitch had before all the hooking up started.

"I'm such an asshole," he blurts out. "Sorry for ignoring you. You didn't fuck anything up, Mitch."

There's a quiet sigh of relief on the other end. "Okay. Thanks." Mitch pauses. "Are you okay? Is everything… you don't have to tell me what the summer was about, but are you okay?"

This would be part of why Dylan can't put his feelings in a box and stick them in the back of his brain. Mitch plays a part, the cocky, almost-arrogant player, or the overexcited rookie that Dylan has glimpsed when he couldn't keep himself from looking at Leafs camp highlights. He's sweet, though, under all of it; his heart is by far the biggest part of him, and Dylan's kind of helpless every time he remembers it.

"I'm okay," he says. It doesn't sound very convincing to his own ears. "I'm… I'll be okay, how's that?"

"Okay," Mitch says. "If there's anything I can do…"

Dylan can't ask him to not be himself, and he's not going to shut Mitch out again, that's for sure. "Tell me about camp," he says instead. Hockey he can handle; hockey's a language that has yet to fail him. "How's camp? How's being so close to the World Cup?"

"If Davo's team doesn't make it to the finals, I will cry," Mitch says instantly. "Actual tears. I'll snap them to you."

"Or Davo's team could just make the finals, and then nobody has to cry," Dylan points out. 

"Or that," Mitch agrees. "Oh man, though, let me tell you about Bozak's weird locker room shit."

Dylan smiles and leans back, letting Mitch's voice wash over him. He missed this, too.

-0-

Dylan doesn't make the lineup for opening night. He's in the next three games and comes out a minus three and then he's scratched again, watching from the box as the Coyotes fail to get it done against team after team. He feels a little bit like a human yo-yo, in the lineup and back out again. When mid-November rolls around and he's called for a meeting with the GM and the coach, he already knows what they're going to tell him.

It's a nice meeting, as "we're sending you back to juniors because you can't even crack this shitty team" talks go. Dylan can't lie to himself or to anyone else about how much it sucks, looking at where the Coyotes are in the standings and the shitshow they put on ice every night and knowing he's not even good enough for _that_. He knows he didn't make the kind of splash they were hoping for when he was in the lineup, but they only gave him seven games, and his ice time was limited, his role restricted. He's better than they think he is, better than he's shown, but they're not going to give him his last two games to prove it to them.

He tries not to throw his things into his suitcase with any extra force, but Crouse is giving him sad face from the other bed in the hotel room they've been sharing.

"Dude," Crouse starts.

"Please don't," Dylan says shortly. "Please. Do well, kick ass, let me just… go and do my thing for a little while."

Crouse sighs a little, but he nods. He waits until Dylan's got everything packed up, then asks, "Need a ride to the airport?"

"They're sending a car," Dylan says, waving his hand vaguely.

"Stromer," Crouse says patiently. "Lemme drive you to the airport, buddy. C'mon."

Dylan slumps a little. "Yeah, okay."

Crouse claps him on the shoulder as they head out towards the parking deck. He's a good guy, really; they'd hung out some during all the pre-draft stuff, and it's not Crouse's fault that Dylan's a little bitter right now. They're the same draft year; he can't help but feel like there's something to the fact that Chayka traded for Crouse and is keeping him up while he's sending Dylan back.

It's the bitterness talking and Dylan knows it, so he bites his lip hard and tosses his bag into the back seat. Crouse is messing with the radio when Dylan climbs into the front seat, and they both stay quiet on the drive over.

"Thanks," Dylan says as Crouse gets in the exit lane for the airport. "And I meant it before, about you kicking ass. See if you can make us not win the draft lottery, eh?"

Crouse laughs a little. "I'm only one man, Stromer, but I'll do what I can."

"That's all I ask," Dylan says. He forces a smile that feels at least halfway natural.

"Have you, uh," Crouse says. He goes quiet for a moment, and Dylan doesn't think it has anything to with finding the right terminal. He braces himself a little for whatever's coming next. "Have you told Marns?"

"No," Dylan says, blinking a little. "I've told my mom. That's it. I haven't even told Davo yet."

Crouse pulls up to the terminal and puts the car in park, turning to give Dylan a serious look. "Okay, so, I don't actually know what went down between the two of you, but you should tell him before he finds out from Twitter or some shit."

"It's not really..." Dylan starts, but Crouse shakes his head and cuts in.

"I know you don't want to talk about it, man," he says. "I can't even imagine what would be going through my head right now if I was in your shoes, but I know that much." He shrugs a little. "But whatever you and Marns have going on, you mean a lot to him. Like, I've been his friend for a while, and…"

Dylan forces himself to swallow. "And?"

"You mean a lot to him," Crouse repeats. "And you can let him find out from Puck Daddy or whatever if you want. That's your call. But he would definitely rather hear it from you."

He lapses into silence then, and Dylan doesn't know if he wants to reach over and hug Crouse or shake more words out of him. In the end, he just nods and climbs out of the car. "Thanks for the ride," he says as he grabs his bag. "See you when I see you, I guess."

"Kill it in Erie," Crouse says, shooting him a smile. "Make them sorry they sent you back."

Dylan steps back and salutes lazily before turning and heading inside.

It doesn't take all that long to get to his gate; people haven't started travelling for American Thanksgiving en masse yet, so there aren't a ton of people waiting. He's got almost an hour and a half before they start boarding his flight, and Dylan considers calling Davo, calling Ryan, but he thinks about what Crouse had said in the car and he thinks about whose voice he actually wants to hear right now, so instead he calls Mitch.

"Hey," Mitch says warmly when he picks up. "Long time, no phone call. Texting just isn't the same, Stromer."

Dylan closes his eyes and leans back in his chair. "You break a finger I didn't hear about? Must suck, not being able to call people on your own."

"I'll give you the finger, all right," Mitch says. Dylan can hear the smile in his voice. "So to what do I owe the honor?"

Dylan's not sure how to say it, now that Mitch is on the line. As Dylan had thought, once Mitch hit NHL ice, there was nothing anyone could do to take it away from him; he's playing like he _belongs_ , and Dylan aches with how proud he is of Mitch even as he's struggling himself.

"Dylan?" Mitch asks, quieter. "Hey, what's going on?"

"I'm at the airport," Dylan says. He refuses to open his eyes to glance around. "They're, uh."

Mitch is silent for a second as he pieces together what Dylan can't force past his lips. "They're not," he says. "They're sending you back? To Erie?"

"Yeah," Dylan says. It's really all he can manage, and he's glad his eyes are already shut so he doesn't have to close them as they start to water.

"This is bullshit," Mitch says, sounding more vehement than Dylan was expecting. "You're—Dylan. You are too good for this."

"Guess not," Dylan says, reaching up to rub at his eyes. 

"No," Mitch says fiercely. "You _are_. I'm going to fly to Arizona and kick your GM's ass. He's like a big, thin stick. I can totally take him."

It surprises a choked-sounding laugh out of Dylan. "Don't break anything."

"I'll break his _whole face_ ," Mitch says. His voice softens a little. "I can't believe they're doing this to you, Dyls. It sucks and it doesn't make any sense."

"I guess they think I'll get more out of being in Erie," Dylan mutters. "Since they can't send me to Tuscon."

Mitch sighs. "Hey, take them all the way, then," he says. "Don't tell anyone, but I'll be an Otters fan this year, okay? We can both have a Mem Cup."

"I'm holding you to that," Dylan says. It makes him smile a little. "Hey, if you're gonna be an Otters fan, does that mean you'll come to one of my games in a Strome jersey?"

Mitch chokes. "No fucking way, Stromer. Those things are ass-ugly, even when you're modelling."

Dylan laughs. Something in his chest eases a little as Mitch details for him exactly what's wrong with each of the Otters' jerseys, and he's not really okay, not yet, but this… he needed this.

-0-

Erie is…

Well, it's Erie, and that's what's great about it and also what's terrible. Brinksy greets him mad as a wet cat, spitting insults at everyone from Chayka down to the maintenance staff in Glendale. It's the most extreme reaction by far, but most of the guys seem happy enough to have him back. Coach just claps him on the shoulder and shakes his head a little, and that's what makes Dylan feel like he can do this, that he can wreck things back here in Erie and prove that the Coyotes made a huge mistake.

He didn't expect it to suck as much as it does, though, being the one who got sent back again. Ryan drilled it into him early to never read his own press, good or bad, but things slip through. He knows how many people are calling him a bust, saying that he should have been drafted way lower down, maybe even in the second or third round, maybe not at all.

Brinksy's the one to find him scrolling through The Hockey News on his phone in their hotel room in Guelph, and he scowls impressively as he steals Dylan's phone. "What are you doing?"

"Just reading," Dylan says defensively. "There was an article about Davo, and…"

"Nuh-uh, no, make better choices," Brinksy says, still scowling. "I will take away your phone forever if you're just using it to beat yourself up more."

Dylan rolls his eyes. "What, you're my dad now?"

"I will _tell_ your dad," Brinksy threatens. "Worse, I'll tell your brother. And Davo."

"Just leave it," Dylan says, sighing. "It's whatever. I mean, they're gonna say whatever they want no matter what."

"So prove them wrong," Brinksy says, poking Dylan hard in the shoulder. "They said I was too small to play, and here I am. They said I'd never get drafted, and hey, look at me now. _They_ are all full of shit, whoever they are." He pokes Dylan again. "Go kill it out there and make them all eat their words."

"Yeah, sure," Dylan says. He's had this same conversation with so many people lately, and it's hard to work up the energy to feel enthusiastic about it. "Look, it's not like I'm gonna slack off out there."

Brinksy sits down on his bed. "Do I need to call in the big guns?" he asks seriously. "Because I can and I will, even if every team he's ever been on gives me hives."

"What," Dylan says blankly.

"The things I do for you," Brinksy says solemnly. He wakes Dylan's phone up and types in his passcode, then pokes at it for a moment before calling someone.

"How do you even know my passcode?" Dylan asks. He's not super surprised; he knows a bunch of his teammates', past and present, but he hasn't been back long enough for Brinksy to figure it out, or so he thought.

"Shh, you're predictable," Brinksy says. Then he shakes his head. "What, no, not you. Yeah, no, I'm not Dylan." He listens for a minute, then nods. "Sure thing, man. Good luck."

He stands up and walks over, handing Dylan his phone. "I love you like a brother," he says, fierce and bright like he is when he's really passionate about something. "So do what you need to do, okay, but make sure you're all good at the end of it."

Dylan flings his arm out and catches Brinksy around the waist, tugging him in for a quick hug. "Who'd you sic on me?" he mumbles into Brinksy's side.

"Your other half," Brinksy says. "Or whatever you guys are. It's Marns."

"You," Dylan starts, but Brinksy wiggles free and darts for the door. It slams behind him, and Dylan just stares for a moment.

"Dylan," he hears from his phone, faint but unmistakeable. "I know you didn't hang up. The call's still connected."

"Hey," Dylan says, bringing the phone to his face. "Uh, sorry about Brinks."

"I told him to call me if you went mission critical," Mitch says calmly. "Because you seem to have this thing about not calling me when shit gets bad, even though I know it helps when we talk."

Dylan's a little stunned, honestly. "I'm not..." he says slowly. "I'm okay, I promise."

"I don't think that word means what you think it means," Mitch says. He sighs into the phone. "I want to help you, but I don't even know where to start."

"Uh," Dylan says. He swallows hard. He's out of his depth; he wants to curl up into Mitch's side, to just close his eyes and breathe for a few minutes. He doesn't get to have that, though. Maybe if he'd stayed up, maybe if he was going to see Mitch later this month, maybe he could swing it. But now, with him in Erie and Mitch in Toronto, he knows he's got less of a chance than he had before.

"Dyls," Mitch says. "Can we…"

"Can we what?" Dylan asks when Mitch doesn't continue.

"Can we talk about the end of the summer?" he asks softly. "I know you said I didn't fuck anything up, but I feel like whatever it was, it's kind of important." Dylan's quiet for a moment, and Mitch adds, "If I'm way off base, let me know."

"You're not," Dylan says. "It's… you didn't fuck anything up. You _didn't_."

"Okay," Mitch says. "What happened, then?"

"I don't know," Dylan mutters, slumping back across his bed. "It was just… we only had the summer, right? And then we'd go off and be on our teams and be a million kilometers from each other."

"Okay," Mitch says slowly.

"So I couldn't anymore," Dylan says in a rush. "It's like every time we got together all I could think of was how much I was gonna miss you, and I just—I know that's on me, I do. We weren't—we didn't—"

"Dylan, breathe," Mitch breaks in, and Dylan takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Breathe, it's okay, you're okay."

"You didn't fuck anything up," Dylan manages to choke out. "You're not the one who couldn't keep a lid on all his feelings. I was trying to spare both of us at the end of the summer, I guess, but here we are."

"Here we are," Mitch agrees. He sounds… sad, Dylan thinks. Maybe he's projecting again. He can't tell anymore.

"Sorry," he says after a minute. He's curled up on his side, balancing the phone on his face. "For… yeah. Lots of shit. Sorry."

"I just wish you'd said something before now," Mitch says. "Like over the summer, when you were going through all this."

"It's been longer than just this summer," Dylan confesses, because there's no reason not to tell Mitch all of it, now that he's started to talk. "I've been—since before the draft, it's been kind of awful to think about what this was gonna be like. And now you're up, you're playing for the _Leafs_ , and I'm—"

"Don't," Mitch says fiercely. "Whatever you were about to say, do not. I will start up with texting you shit about how incredible you are again."

Dylan laughs weakly. "That's a terrible threat."

"Dylan," Mitch says. "You, with all the feelings? That's me, too."

It takes a moment for Dylan to process the words, and he pulls in a sharp breath when it clicks. "What?"

"We weren't ever really… anything," Mitch says. "I knew that, and I was dealing with it, but I always wanted there to be something. For us to be something."

"Me too," Dylan says. He grabs the bedspread tightly in his hand. "Me too."

"Do you still?" Mitch says. Dylan knows he's not imagining the hopeful tone to Mitch's voice this time. "Because I definitely still want that. With you."

"Yeah," Dylan breathes out. "I really, really do."

"Good," Mitch says. "Because I was gonna get really annoying about it if you said no, probably."

Dylan laughs a little. "It's gonna be kinda, y'know. Weird, and hard."

"I'm still in," Mitch promises. "You?"

"Yeah," Dylan replies. "I'm still in."

-0-

As it turns out, it's not as weird as Dylan thought it might be.

They go back to texting and snapping and calling each other as often as they can; their schedules are kind of a mess when it comes to being able to interact, but Dylan leaves more voicemails over the next couple of weeks than he has in probably the rest of the year before that, and Brinksy goes from gleefully taking credit for cheering Dylan up to sulking about how gross he is.

"No, seriously, put that face away," Brinksy says. They're in the locker room early for their last game before the Christmas break, and Mitch has been texting him all afternoon. Mostly it's encouragement, with an added dash of Mitch teasing him about whatever Christmas present he'd gotten for Dylan. Dylan glances at his phone as it pings again, another _kick windsor's ass!!!!! i'm gonna watch the game ok score for me_

"I can't help it," Dylan says shrugging. He smiles down at his phone as he taps out _i'll do my best_ , and Brinksy fakes gagging in the background.

"Ugh," Brinksy announces as his own phone pings. He makes a face at it before pocketing it and standing up. "I'm gonna go look at the ice, and then we can start getting ready."

"Go do your weird thing," Dylan says, waving his hand at the door. "I'm gonna start stretching."

"Yeah, okay," Brinksy says. He sounds oddly cheerful out of nowhere, and Dylan narrows his eyes at him as he makes his way out of the locker room.

"Fucking weirdo," Dylan mutters as the door closes behind Brinksy. He's one of Dylan's closest friends and he loves the guy, but he honestly does not get what motivates Brinksy most days.

Dylan stands up and reaches towards the ceiling, twisting to work the kinks out of his spine. He's just starting to lower his arms so he can move on when the locker room door bangs open again, and Brinksy barrels in, manic smile firmly in place. "So," he says, bouncing on his toes. "Merry fucking Christmas, buddy."

"Uh," Dylan says, confused. Brinksy bounces over and gives Dylan a quick sideways hug, then grabs his hand and tugs him towards the door. "What's going on, Brinks?"

"I got you something," he says, leading Dylan down the hall. He stops beside the door to the trainers' room; it's still too early for anyone to be in there, but Brinksy shoves the door open and gestures inside. Dylan raises an eyebrow at him instead of looking in. "Or, okay, I helped coordinate something. Still."

"Oh my god, Brinks," someone says, and Dylan's head whips around so fast that his neck hurts a little. Mitch smiles at him, leaning against the desk, and raises a hand.

"What," Dylan says, smiling automatically as he takes a step into the room.

"You've got about twenty minutes before people start getting here," Brinksy says, shoving Dylan's shoulder. "Make it count, and tell me zero details. Bye!"

He shoves Dylan the rest of the way in and shuts the door, and Dylan doesn't hesitate to walk over and pull Mitch into a hug. "Oh my god, hi," he breathes.

"Hi," Mitch murmurs, rocking them gently back and forth a little. "Merry Christmas."

"You," Dylan starts, pulling back to grin at Mitch. His entire expression freezes when he really takes in what Mitch is wearing. "Oh my god, seriously?"

Mitch takes a step back and holds his arms out, the yellow of the Otters' third jersey doing nothing to compete with the brightness of his smile. He does a slow turn, and sure enough, Dylan's name and number are emblazoned across his back. He finishes his turn and beams up at Dylan. "What do you think?"

"I think I distinctly remember you telling me you wouldn't wear my jersey to a game of mine," Dylan says, reaching out to tug at the sleeve. "And that you think they're ass-ugly."

"Well, I stand by that second part," Mitch says. "But my boyfriend is a very tall marshmallow, y'know, so I figured just this once."

Dylan cracks up. "A what?"

"You heard me," Mitch replies, stepping back into Dylan's space and hugging him close. "You're all gooey on the inside. This romantic gesture shit, it's your bread and butter."

Dylan hides his smile in Mitch's hair. "You're not wrong," he admits. He's really, really right, in fact, and the more it sinks in that Mitch is here, that he drove the three and a half hours down from Toronto the night before a game, that he's _wearing Dylan's jersey_ , the more Dylan feels like he's maybe actually melting on the inside.

"You love it," Mitch says, soft but sure, and Dylan presses a kiss to his temple.

"I do," he confirms.

"So," Mitch says, not making a move to pull away. They'll have to soon; Dylan really does need to get ready for his game. "You gonna score me a goal?"

"Absolutely," Dylan promises with a smile. He can do that. He can go out and score a goal, maybe two, maybe three.

He's starting to feel like he can maybe do anything.

**Author's Note:**

> -the game i referenced at the beginning did happen, timing and score and penalty-wise.
> 
> -the knights swept the otters out of the 2016 playoffs. there was a very tragic on-ice hug. everyone cried. (mostly it was dylan.)
> 
> -the otters' yellow jerseys are kindergartener-sun yellow. it's like they're wearing highlighters.
> 
> -world juniors is a thing! brinksy and dylan were both at WJC camp when that last game took place! shhhhhh, not in fiction-land.


End file.
